The Natural

“‘He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be i

“Judge,” said Roy, “I am thirty-four, going on thirty-five. That’s not haste, that’s downright slow.”

“I hear that you bet money on horse races?”

“In moderation, not more than a deuce on the daily double.”

“Avoid gambling like a plague. It will cause your downfall. And stay away from loose ladies. ‘Put a knife to thy throat if thou be a man given to appetite.’”

Roy could hear him open a drawer and take something out. Handing it to him, he lit a match over it and Roy read: “The Curse of Venereal Disease.”

He tossed the pamphlet on the desk.

“Yes or no?” he said.

“Yes or no what?” The Judge’s voice was edged with anger.

“Fifteen thousand.”

The Judge rose. “I shall have to ask you to fulfill the obligations of your contract.”

Roy got up. “I wouldn’t exactly say you were building up my good will for next year.”

“I have learned to let the future take care of itself.”

The Judge took some other papers out of the drawer. “I presume these are your signatures?” He scratched up another match.

“That’s right.”

“The first acknowledging the receipt of two uniforms and sundry articles?”

“Right.”

“And the second indicating the receipt of a third uniform?”

“That’s what it says.”

“You were entitled to only two. I understand that some of the other clubs issue four, but that is an extravagance. Here, therefore, is a bill to the amount of fifty-one dollars for property destroyed. Will you remit or shall I deduct the sum from your next check?”

“I didn’t destroy them, Bump did.”

“They were your responsibility.”

Roy picked up the receipts and bill and tore them to pieces. He did the same with the VD pamphlet, then blew the whole business over the Judge’s head. The scraps of paper fluttered down like snow on his round hat.

“The interview is ended,” snapped the Judge. He scratched up a match and with it led Roy to the stairs. He stood on the landing, his oily shadow dripping down the steps as Roy descended.

“Mr. Hobbs.”

Roy stopped.

“Resist all evil —”

The match sputtered and went out. Roy went the rest of the way down in the pitch black.

“How’d you make out, kid?”

It was Max Mercy lurking under a foggy street lamp at the corner. He had tailed Roy from the dressing room and had spent a frustrated hour thinking I know the guy but who is he? It was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t spit it out. He saw the face as he thought he had seen it before somewhere, but what team, where, in what league, and doing what that caused him to be remembered? The mystery was like an itch. The more he scratched the more he drew his own blood. At times the situation infuriated him. Once he dreamed he had the big s.o.b. by the throat and was forcing him to talk. Then he told the world Mercy knew.

The sight of the columnist did not calm Roy as he came out of the tower. Why does he haunt me? He thought he knew what Max sensed and he knew that he didn’t want him to know. I don’t want his dirty eyes peeking into my past. What luck for me that I had Sam’s wallet in my pocket that night, and they wrote down his name. This creep will never find that out, or anything else about me unless I tell him, and the only time I’ll do that is when I am dead.

“Listen, El Smearo,” he said, “why don’t you stay home in bed?”

Max laughed hollowly.

“Who has ever seen the like of it?” he said, trying to put some warmth into his voice. “Here’s the public following everything a man does with their tongue hanging out and all he gives out with is little balls of nothing. What are you hiding? If it was something serious you woulda been caught long ago — your picture has been in the papers every day for weeks.”

“I ain’t hiding a thing.”

“Who says you are? But what’s all the mystery about? Where were you born? Why’d you stay out of the game so long? What was your life like before this? My paper will guarantee you five grand in cash for five three-thousand word articles on your past life. I’ll help you write them. What do you say?”

“I say no. My life is my own business.”

“Think of your public.”

“All they’re entitled to is to pay a buck and watch me play.”

“Answer me this — is it true you once tried out with another major league team?”

“I got nothing to say.”

“Then you don’t deny it?”

“I got nothing to say.”

“Were you once an acrobat or something in a circus?”

“Same answer as before.”

Max scratched in his mustache. “Hobbs, the man nobody knows. Say, kid, you’re not doing it on purpose, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“To raise speculation and get publicity?”

“Nuts I am.”

“I don’t catch. You’re a public figure. You got to give the fans something once in a while to keep up their good will to you.”

Roy thought a second. “Okay, tell them my cheapskate of a boss has turned me down flat on a raise and I am still his slave for a lousy three thousand bucks.”

Max wrote a hasty note in his black book.

“Listen, Roy, let’s you and I have a little chin-chin. You’ll like me better once you get to know me. Have you had your supper yet?”

“No.”

“Then have a steak with me at the Pot of Fire. Know the place?”

“I have never been there.”

“It’s a night club with a nice girlie show. All the hot-shot celebrities like yourself hang out there. They have a good kitchen and a first class bar.”

“Okay with me.” He was in a mood for something for nothing.

In the cab Max said, “You know, I sometimes get the fu

Roy thrust his head forward. “Where?”

Max contemplated his eyes and solid chin.

“It musta been somebody else.”

At the entrance to the Pot of Fire a beggar accosted them.

“Jesus,” Max said, “can’t I ever get rid of you?”

“All I ask is a buck.”

“Go to hell.”

The beggar was hurt. “You’ll get yours,” he said. “You’ll get yours,” said Max. “I’ll call a cop.” “You’ll get yours,” the beggar said. “You too,” he said to Roy and spat on the sidewalk.

“Friend of yours?” Roy asked as they went down the stairs into the nightspot.

Max’s face was inflamed. “I can’t get rid of that scurvy bastard. Picks this place to hang around and they can’t flush him outa here.”

Inside the club the audience was in an uproar. The show was on and some screaming, half-naked girls were being chased by masked devils with tin pitchforks. Then the lights went Out and the devils ran around poking at the customers. Roy was jabbed in the rear end. He grabbed at the devil but missed, then he heard a giggle and realized it was a girl. He grabbed for her again but the devil jabbed him and ran. When the lights went on all the girls and devils were gone. The customers guffawed and applauded.

“Come on,” Max said.

The captain had recognized him and was beckoning them to a ringside table. Roy sat down. Max looked around and bounced up.

“See a party I know. Be right back.”

The band struck up a number and the chorus wriggled out amid weaving spotlights for the finale. They were wearing red spangled briefs and brassieres and looked so pretty that Roy felt lonely.

Max was back.

“We’re changing tables. Gus Sands wants us with him.”

“Who’s he?”

Max looked to see if Roy was kidding.

“You don’t know Gus Sands?”

“Never heard of him.”

“What d’ye read, the Podunk Pipsqueak? They call him the Supreme Bookie, he nets at least ten million a year. Awfully nice guy and he will give you the silk shirt off his back. Also somebody you know is with him.”

“Who’s that?”

“Memo Paris.”

Roy got up. What’s she doing here? He followed Max across the floor to Gus Sands’s table. Memo was sitting there alone in a black strapless gown and wearing her hair up. The sight of her, so beautiful, hit him hard. He had been picturing her alone in her room nights. She said hello evasively. At first he thought she was still sore at him, but then he heard voices coming from the floor at the other side of the table and understood that was where she was looking.